e secret which had
gnawed at his heart for years, during which to her his mien had often
been smiling and always serene. Mrs. Ferrars was at home, and alone,
in her luxurious boudoir, and he went to her at once. After years
of dissimulation, now that all was over, Ferrars could not bear the
suspense of four-and-twenty hours.

It was difficult to bring her into a mood of mind capable of
comprehending a tithe of of what she had to learn; and yet the darkest
part of the tale she was never to know. Mrs. Ferrars, though singularly
intuitive, shrank from controversy, and settled everything by
contradiction and assertion. She maintained for a long time that what
her husband communicated to her could not be; that it was absurd and
even impossible. After a while, she talked of selling her diamonds
and reducing her equipage, sacrificing which she assumed would put
everything right. And when she found her husband still grave and still
intimating that the sacrifices must be beyond all this, and that they
must prepare for the life and habits of another social sphere, she
became violent, and wept and declared her wrongs; that she had been
deceived and outraged and infamously treated.

Remembering how long and with what apparent serenity in her presence he
had endured his secret woes, and how one of the principal objects of his
life had ever been to guard her even from a shade of solicitude, even
the restrained Ferrars was affected; his countenance changed and his
eyes became suffused. When she observed this, she suddenly threw her
arms round his neck and with many embraces, amid sighs and tears,
exclaimed, "O William! if we love each other, what does anything
signify?"

And what could anything signify under such circumstances and on such
conditions? As Ferrars pressed his beautiful wife to his heart, he
remembered only his early love, which seemed entirely to revive.
Unconsciously to himself, too, he was greatly relieved by this burst of
tenderness on her part, for the prospect of this interview had been most
distressful to him. "My darling," he said, "ours is not a case of common
imprudence or misfortune. We are the victims of a revolution, and we
must bear our lot as becomes us under such circumstances. Individual
misfortunes are merged in the greater catastrophe of the country."

"That is the true view," said his wife; "and, after all, the poor King
of France is much worse off than we are. However, I cannot now buy the
Duches